Long before they gained the main thoroughfare, both Royson and Irene
were conscious of many prying eyes. Not a few passers-by yielded
frankly to curiosity and followed them. The girl, of course, was
hatless. Her dress of fine muslin was of a style and texture seldom
seen in Massowah, and if the rare beauty of her face could excite
comment in Hyde Park it would surely not pass unnoticed in a small and
semi-barbarous Red Sea port.
Royson, too, though his white drill uniform was familiar enough to the
public, was out of keeping with his surroundings. He towered among the
puny Italians; not a stalwart negro nor gaunt Arab in the throng could
equal him in stature and physique.
So they both agreed in thinking that they were much more at ease when
Moti was carrying them along the dark road of the mainland than now
while hurrying through the packed and dimly-lighted streets. But the
sensation they created in the bazaar was as naught compared with the
overwhelming effect of their arrival in the Grand Hotel of the
Universe.
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